


He Is Not Okay

by orphan_account



Series: Wrong & Right [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can't tell him, he's not ready.”</p><p>He couldn't quite recall how many times he found himself thinking that.  All thoughts and no actions because that would mean admitting to have made a mistake, and mistakes were something he never made.</p><p>Stanford Pines was never wrong.</p><p>No.  That wasn't right.  It hadn't been right in a rather long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Is Not Okay

“I can't tell him, he's not ready.”

He couldn't quite recall how many times he found himself thinking that. All thoughts and no actions because that would mean admitting to have made a mistake, and mistakes were something he never made.

Stanford Pines was never wrong.

No.

That wasn't right.

It hadn't been right in a rather long time.

Stanford Pines was always wrong.

That sounded much better because ever since that demon reigned, and gravity fell and the earth became sky, he could sit and list all of his mistakes and sins a mile long, awake and asleep like the back of his hand. Though if he were to be perfectly honest with himself for once, he wasn't quite sure if he could do so properly in his sleep because he couldn't remember the last time he had more than a mere few hours of sleep at most.

He's had nightmares before, more years than he could count, but as time carried on the fodder for his terrors grew. There wasn't much he could do to stop them, and perhaps there never would be. But every time he had a moment of peace, and he let his mind wander as to why they ever occurred to begin with, part of him felt that it may be the right thing after all.

He never put too much stock into luck, but if there was anything he believed in now, it was karma. It was his weight to bear, and he couldn't bring in more people than he should. There was no pleading, no wishing, and no praying for aide, a sign of some sorts as to what to do, how to do something right after years of thinking he always had been.

Praying was the last on his list and practically the bottom of the barrel in and of itself. The last time he sought wishes and answers, he came face to face with what he believed to be a god. A muse which he never truly entertained as just such. As his house became a shrine, it was as though those words were never spoken, only a title mentioned once. The more answers he sought, the more he practically prayed to it, to tell him what to do or to take absolute control, the further he dug his own grave.

No.

That wasn't right either.

He was digging the world its own grave, but in the end it would be more of a communal burn pile for crowds of people to be long forgotten, nameless faces in unmarked graves, to be erased from the world as it kept spinning.

So all in all, he should have told him. Perhaps he truly had been ready the whole time, but he either couldn't see it or was a lie so well strung together that he himself believed it. Part of him wished it would never come up, that he wouldn't have to make such a decision. They were his mistakes to fix alone, and he would be damned if he dragged more people down with him.

Stanley Pines did not deserve that.

He didn't need the guilt of knowing that listening to his final words would bring about the end of the world. That because he was a good brother, he could kill them all. That all of his life's work had been for naught because it wouldn't matter if he had no life afterwords.

So the Rift was his secret.

No.

That wasn't quite right either.

He latched onto a child he barely knew only because he reminded him of himself. It felt like a brilliant idea at the time, but looking back on it, it was a terrible mistake, another mistake he had no choice but to accept as his own with no options of washing his hands clean of the whole ordeal. Perhaps in the end that became his undoing. It was his burden to bare, his mistake to fix, but part of him felt… Felt something. Something didn't feel right. Part of the equation was missing and if he knew which piece, he must have been getting better at lying despite it all because it still managed to escape his grasp.

In the end none of it truly mattered. He nearly didn't have the opportunity to confess to any of his mistakes and sins because of his own lies and pride. He couldn't remember how long he sat in that stiff chair in that little white room with the little red fez. Even when he sat there without the fez, the hours blurred together so seamlessly that he couldn't tell apart the days or even weeks if it truly grew to that.

He stopped count hours, counting gifts, counting mistakes and breaths to counting down in his head a detonator he knew would set off at any time now. A fuse would be lit and everything would combust in searing words with sharp tongues because he knew it couldn't, it wouldn't end well. Trust could only be spread so thin before you didn't have the slightest chance of having it again. He could only hope that the blows might soften enough for there to be some sort of wreckage, not a pile of charred remains. And although such a description wasn't all too tactful, he found it to be the best he could manage at that time.

Eventually he would get his answer, and while the past may suggest that it would be better in the long run, he knew it would be the worst aftermath yet.

When Stanley finally came home, Stanford could tell something wasn't quite right. He kept giving him odd looks, his questions and jabs sounding more confused than the sharp words he honestly expected. No blame, just prods at why he acted so off, why he suddenly wanted to apologize, why did he change in general.

He wanted to wait. So terribly did he want to wait before it all went into motion, but the more he avoided the subject as much as possible, the more he was forced to avoid his brother in general which he knew would only make the fuse burn faster.

So he didn't make any wishes, have any hopes, and certainly didn't pray. Instead, he went outside and sat next to his brother on the couch that even after rebuilding the shack, they still couldn't fit through the door.

Stanley stayed still for a moment before finally looking at him, eyes seeming to rake over his form for a moment.

“So. You ready to talk yet or should we just go back to before this whole mess started?”

Stanford sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he tried to collect his thoughts and perhaps get them to come out right.

“We should have talked a long time ago.”

Stanley snorted, turning back to the front yard. “Yeah, no kidding...”

He dropped his hand and looked to his brother, a small frown on his face. “I wanted to tell you, but did you honestly think you would have accepted it all so easily?”

He frowned deeper, “You would have thought I was blaming you the whole time.”

Stanley huffed and bent over to set his drink on the porch. “I get it, Ford. You've got less people skills than the goat,”

He turned back to his brother, eyes narrowed a slight, frowning right back at him. “But did you ever think, just once, you could get off your high horse and actually _talk to me_ instead of just assumin' what I'd do?”

Stanford hesitated before looking away, fingers curling into the cloth of his pants. “You're perfectly right.”

He gave a soft snort with a slight shake of his head. “Here I thought I was doing the right thing… For once. I thought if I kept the Rift a secret as much as possible, you wouldn't find out about it. You...”

He pauses again, unfurling his fingers to let them rest. “You didn't need to know about that.”

Stanley's jaw worked for a moment before throwing his hands up in the air, “Really, Ford? Really!? You really think I didn't know what I was getting myself into.”

Stanford froze, and for the second time in who knows how long, he stopped breathing. His body went ridged before swallowing and slowly turning to look at his brother.

“We're talking about the same thing, right…?”

He let his hands fall, practically staring him down now. “I worked on that thing for _30 years_ before I got the other two journals. I didn't _have them_ them til _this summer_.”

He reached beneath his glasses, rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “Did you think I learned nothing after all that time?” He asked, his tone laced with exasperation and irritation.

Stanford sat unmoving, but perhaps he might be breathing again. His stomach felt chilled and hollow, but eventually he looked at his brother with defeat in his eyes. Nothing came to mind. After all that time… He knew. He knew the whole time and here he was, trying to do the one thing he thought he could manage and in the end it was all for naught because apparently he did indeed learn his lesson too late.

“Y-you knew…? You knew the whole time?!” His voice rose and he's thinks he heard it crack, but he couldn't find a care even if someone held it in front of his nose.

Stanley's eyes grew large for a moment before glaring and jabbing a finger at him. “Yeah, I did! But I still did it because all this time, I thought you might still care about me.”

Stanford stood quickly, sight darkening around the edges. His brother moved as well, expecting to stand and fight again, but as he did, he got the opposite reaction.

“St-still care? Still care?! That's why I kept the whole thing a secret, you knuckle head!” He ran a hand through his hair, clutching the locks tightly for a moment, unable to look at him as he finally stood as well.

“You risked _everything_ to get me back. _Everyone_.” He let his hand drop, mind reeling before giving up on trying to filter himself.

“Not just you, not just me, but _-”_ He cut himself off, sputtering for a moment.

“What about Mabel? What about Dipper? What about Soos!?” He threw his hands up in the air, and Stanley could only stare in shock, jaw working to say something, anything to try to slow it all down, but he can't. The last time he remembered Stanford acting so out of sorts was 30 years ago. But even then, that Stanford was nothing compared to his Stanford or the one he was staring at right then.

The Stanford he knew was bull-headed and stubborn, never admitting to a single flaw or mistake, always right.

Stanford Pines was always right, he remembered being ingrained in the back of his head.

By teachers, by parents, they all were the same, but apparently he didn't agree with them anymore because the Stanford before him acted the exact opposite. Frenzied and just crumbling before him.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he heard.

Stanford Pines was not okay, he knew.

So he stayed back, waiting for his brother to take a breath, not wanting to chance a physical fight just yet.

“You had everything you could have wanted! Or at least what you should have deserved! You had a house, a business, a completely new life! You even had a _family_ , Stanley!”

He gave an unsteady laugh, hand raking back through his hand and unable to keep looking at his brother.

“And you _threw it all away_ You threw it all away for someone who might have long been dead, and as much as I _wanted_ to be saved, I resigned myself to my fate _years_ ago. I shouldn't even be alive, let alone be _here_!”

Stanley swore he could see him shaking, but in that moment it was the least of his worries. He reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder, to say something, do something because this wasn't the Stanford knew, and he didn't like what he saw. Instead of accepting it, however, he quickly shrugged him off as though he were burning and launched again into his ramblings.

“Ford, just listen to me for a sec-”

“NO! YOU listen!” Stanley jolted for a moment and took a step back, eyes widening even more as Stanford pointing a shaky finger at him.

“You gave up _everything_ for me. Sacrificed everything! Not you just. The kids, the town- You couldn't just let me go. You'd rather die with me than live without me! You held on too close to me. It was suffocating because you held on so tight, took this-this- this-”

He stammered for a moment, swallowing thickly, trying to wrack his brain for a word, any word, but part of him knew whatever he picked wouldn't be enough for the severity of the situation. Not in the slightest.

And Stanley didn't try to stop him in the slightest. Whatever he tried to say then would be stomped out quickly and without a second thought. Part of him didn't want to dare to try to touch him again because he didn't want to see what would happen if it just made things worse. He didn't want to think about how it could get worse in that moment.

Stanford gave up, his brain too rattled to stick with that thought. There was too much in his head for his mouth to keep up with. He spent days into weeks, so much time it all strung together so seamlessly, and all the thoughts kept stringing together in his head like a cycle he never spoke a word of. He couldn't do it, couldn't afford to. He didn't have that luxury anymore.

Stanford Pines was always wrong, he told himself.

So the least he could do after all his mistakes and tainting so many others with his sins was to at least confess to as many as possible, to admit and let it be known he finally saw what they all saw in him all along.

He was a dangerous know it all, and the things he messed with were even worse.

“You put everyone and everything in danger because of me, despite it all. Despite everything, I-”

He completely paused, sharply cutting himself off. His heavy breathing was the only thing both brothers could hear. Stanley kept quite for a moment longer, waiting for him to say anything else. Just when he thought he could speak, get that foot in door, he heard it.

Stanford gave a small sob, hand braced against the bottom half of his face with closed eyes.

Stanley went ridged, his own head beginning to fill with thoughts and worries. He couldn't remember in the slightest he saw, or ever heard, his brother cry. Not the few times he saw him in the last 40 years and not the foggiest memory on the night it all started. But if the way he kept spilling his guts was anything to go by, maybe there were still a few things he didn't know.

They should have talked sooner.

He could protect them when they were kids and ever since he came home, all he wanted was a thank you. Just a small pat on the back and a word of thanks, just some acknowledgment of blood, sweat, and tears he shed trying to get him home and fix his own mistakes 30 years ago.

But he didn't know how to handle this situation.

He heard the words he kept saying. “You did this,” “You did that,” But that wasn't how the conversation started.

“ _You're perfectly right.”_

Stanley Pines was right.

And when he admitted to knowing the consequences of his actions, that's when he snapped. Now his brother shook and stammered. The look he had seen in his eyes was none too pleasant. He went on and on about how he shouldn't have done what he did because apparently… Apparently he didn't think he was worth it.

“ _I shouldn't be alive, let alone be here,”_ he told him.

Stanford Pines was not okay.

So Stanley stood, rolling about a number of thoughts of what he should do or say because as much as he wanted that little bit of praise, that little bit of love, of admittance of some sort, he didn't expect this. Perhaps a little bit of guilt, but not something this vast. He stood in his shoes before, bemoaning what his brother had and blaming him for it all.

Stanford got a bright future at the sake of ignoring his brother and letting him be kicked out.

Stanley got his brother back at the sake of ignoring the dangers and causing the Rift to be made.

The roads between point A and point B weren't fun by any means. They were darkened with pain and guilt to the point of self-hatred due to his own mistakes. He knew that path well, and he knew the even darker thoughts that followed.

Stanford Pines was not okay, he told himself.

So he stood and waited another moment, waiting for another word, another sign that he could finally say something. But his brother managed to compose himself just long enough to finish his sentence.

“Despite everything, I'd… I'd rather have that because if I didn't... you'd be out of reach, probably long gone.”

He said it almost too quietly, voice strained as though not wanting to admit it.

In all actuality, Stanford didn't want to admit to it. He had been selfish enough, and to admit that part of him felt perfectly fine with letting the world end if it meant spending another moment with his brother… It certainly didn't make things any easier.

He always trusted the wrong people and never could trust the right. Even after everything he did, every lie, every mistake, every sin he committed, the only person to ever try to reach out to him, to still try to help him, was his brother. But after three tries, he didn't have that anymore. No matter how many monsters he wrangled, offers to spend time together, times spent trying to make things a little easier because the thought Stanley might appreciate it, none of it worked. They all fixed nothing.

Stanford Pines was always wrong.

And when he finally had a silver of a chance to have any sort of redemption, it was almost too late. Forced to watch his brother be burned a second time, both by his own mistakes. Then it all became meaningless as the one final thing he thought he could do unfolded to end as another lie. The whole time he thought by trying to keep the Rift a secret, he wouldn't have to give him that guilt. That if he kept it a secret, perhaps he could still keep trying to undo something, anything.

Stanford Pines was always right, he told himself then.

Stanford Pines was always wrong, he told himself now.

So he stood on the porch as the sky darkened and tried to bottle everything back up again because maybe if he could, he could start lying to himself again.

Stanley Pines was fine.

Stanley Pines was okay.

Stanley Pines has personality.

People love charisma.

Stanley Pines can handle himself.

Stanley Pines was safe.

If he could remember his old mantra, etch it back into his head, then perhaps they could put all of it behind them. He could go back to pretending he never did a sole thing wrong, that Stanley was better off without him. In all actuality, he knew only one of those were correct, but til he had a chance to bury it all for good, he couldn't say such things yet. He couldn't afford to because if he did then everything truly would be for naught.

Stanley Pines was not fine.

Stanley Pines was not okay.

Stanley Pines had no personality.

People don't like that.

Stanley Pines couldn't handle himself.

Stanley Pines was not safe.

And if he could tell himself that long enough, then perhaps he would be able to go back to how it used to be.

Stanford Pines was always wrong.

And until he could finally go back to being a hermit, he would insist on manipulating whatever he could til his old mantra became fact.

Stanley didn't make it all too easy, though. So as he stood on the porch as the night drew closer, trying to stop the bottle from shattering and not cry, he didn't notice his brother draw closer until he felt a hand on his shoulder. For once he didn't pull away, not like a few moments before, not like 30 years ago. He didn't want the bottle to break, but if for some reason Stanley wanted to stay around after whatever just happened, he wouldn't try to stop him anymore.

It wasn't every day someone got a fourth try.

  


 


End file.
